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Fresh tears slide down her face.

"I left her." The words crack apart as they leave her. "I left my baby."

"You left Tom."

"I left Lucy too." Her shoulders fold inward. "I couldn't stay there anymore."

I move beside her and pull her into my arms before she can say another word.

She clings to me immediately.

Years disappear between us.

The distance, the arguments, the resentment we'd both carried around, all of it feels ridiculous compared to this.

"I tried before," she says against my shoulder.

I pull back enough to look at her. "What do you mean?"

"I tried leaving."

A knot forms in my stomach. "How many times?"

"Three."

I stare at her.

Three times. Three separate occasions when she'd gathered enough courage to walk away. Three times she'd thought she might make it.

Maggie's gaze drifts back to the street, following everyone who passes the shelter before she leans closer. "I couldn't stay anywhere for long."

A knot tightens in my stomach. "Why?"

She rubs her hands together, staring down at them. "Every shelter asked whether I felt safe, and after a while a few of them started asking a different question." Her mouth twists into a tired smile that never reaches her eyes. "Was a man looking for me?"

My chest tightens. "Tom?"

She nods. "He never used my name. He'd describe me instead and tell people he was desperate to find his missing girlfriend." Her gaze drifts across the park before settling back on mine. "He always sounded worried. Gentle. Heartbroken." A bitter laugh slips out. "People wanted to help him."

My stomach twists.

"They thought they were helping me too," she says. "I'd finally start believing I'd found somewhere I could stay, and then somebody would tell me a man had been asking questions. Maybe it wasn't him. Maybe it was. I never waited long enough to find out."

She sighs.

"The other three times, he always found me eventually." Her voice is quiet. "This time... I wasn't giving him the chance." She lets out a slow breath. "So I kept moving."

I open my mouth but don’t know what to say.

"He always found me," she says. "Every single time."

I already know the rest before she says it.

"He'd apologize. He'd swear he'd changed. He'd tell me all the right things." Her laugh carries no amusement. "Then he'd spend a few weeks being exactly who I wanted him to be."

"And then?"

Her eyes close. "And then he'd get worse."